


She's Your Cocaine

by dakiniten



Series: FemDom!Dean [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Light BDSM, POV Outsider, Riding Crops, is it slash if one of them is temporarily female?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:39:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2682971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dakiniten/pseuds/dakiniten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dominatrix and a slave walk into a bar...</p>
            </blockquote>





	She's Your Cocaine

**Author's Note:**

> Very specific BDSM action and references to same, genderswap, incestuous sexual tension (ish?), outsider POV. Sequel to Bliss of another kind, really need to read that first to understand this one. Beta-ed by the wonderful fhionnuiscetine, any errors are my own. Title from "She's Your Cocaine" by Tori Amos. I don't own anything, no money being made, I'm just playing in the sandbox.

Jane Queen’s first impression of her newest patron was that she was trying way too hard. The woman was beautiful, to be sure, and carried herself with an easy confidence that was just this side of arrogant. But she was dressed a bit like a gothic hooker, and really, she could only look like more of a cliché if she was in a latex cat suit. At least her hair was boy-short, and Jane decided she looked better that way than she would with it long and loose. She was carrying a riding crop, which, okay, was a little more creative than a whip or paddle, but whether it was a tool or a prop remained to be seen. Having completed her assessment of the woman, Jane turned her attention to the man who was following meekly at her heels.

He was tall even with his head ducked down, but at least he stood up straight. Jane was a stickler for good posture. His outfit was nothing special, every day clothes, but the collar around his neck bespoke his purpose in this place. He was broad across the shoulders and Jane felt sure that he was probably well-muscled. He followed a step behind his domme, head bowed demurely but eyes quick and alert, taking in his surroundings. He moved in sync with her easily, like he was extension of her rather than a separate being. It was truly remarkable to watch. Jane had only seen that level of coordination with lifestylers who had been together for many years; these two did not look old enough to have such a pedigree. Jane found herself reevaluating her previous opinion of the mistress.

Although Queen was Jane’s honest-to-god surname, on her birth certificate and everything, it was also her domme archetype. She preferred slightly effeminate slaves to pamper and serve her. She could mete out punishment with the best of them, but she took no pleasure in that aspect of slave training. She would rather spend her time being waited upon than expend the energy to beat a consistently rebellious sub. She understood that for some people, the battle of wills – with the ultimate victory of dom over sub, and subsequent physical punishment – gave them the rush they were both seeking. The new domme might be one of those people, considering the giant moose of a man following her around. But he wasn’t testing her control, and he didn’t seem to be reeling from a pre-emptive punishment. He just followed her, staying out of her way and not speaking unless she spoke to him. He wasn’t falling over himself to offer her creature comforts, as Jane’s slaves often did, and he wasn’t cowering in fear of her wrath. He didn’t jockey for her attention like a child (or puppy - something about his floppy hair and doe-eyes called that image to mind). Jane was a little entranced by watching them make their way through the crowd toward her.

“I’m guessing you’re Queen Jane?” The new domme asked with a smirk when she finally stood before Jane, who was lounging in an extremely comfortable chair. That may or may not have been designed to resemble a throne. Perks of owning your own business, and all that.

“The very same. It’s a pleasure to meet you…” Jane let the sentence hang, waiting for an introduction. She extended her hand to the other woman, who shook it – firm, businesslike. Jane approved.

“Dean. Miss Amanda over at Sinister Sister suggested that I drop by, although I’m beginning to suspect she just wanted to see Sam out of his clothes.” That last was pitched low and suspicious, as she glanced around the club to indicate all the subs in various states of undress. Jane flashed a small grin.

“I think we’d all like to see Sam out of his clothes. He follows your movements quite fluidly. How long did it take to train him to that?” The sub, Sam, was still furtively surveying the club and its occupants, but his eyes always returned to Dean.

“Years. Enough time spent in the dirt – and enough bruises and cuts – taught him to predict my moves before I make them. It’s been useful.” Dean took obvious pride in her training regimen, which was apparently valid. Jane was a firm believer in taking tips on what worked.

“Do you have to punish him often? I can’t imagine what an epic battle that must be.” Obviously Dean’s will won out, but that didn’t mean that it was necessarily an easy thing. Jane tried to imagine wrestling down a man that much larger than her, and couldn’t.

“Not too often, but sometimes. It isn’t that big a deal, though. He doesn’t fight me when he knows he deserves it. Ain’t that right, Sammy?” Dean finally spared Sam a glance, still grinning. Sam nodded his head once.

“Yes, sir,” Sam offered, soft and deferential. It was perfectly subservient, but the honorific threw Jane. She quirked an eyebrow at Dean, who waved her hand dismissively.

“Personal preference of mine.”

“I don’t suppose you’d give me a demonstration? I prefer a belt, myself, but I would love to see your crop in action.” Dean’s smile froze on her face. Jane thought for a moment that she saw a flash of panic in the domme’s eyes. Dean’s gaze flew to Sam, who made eye contact for once and blinked slowly. He bowed his head, hair falling into his eyes. Dean’s posture relaxed and she nodded.

Sam removed his shirt, hands steady and efficient; he wasn’t making a show of it but he didn’t seem nervous, either. He folded the garment neatly and placed it on the floor. Then he sank to his knees in front of Dean, bending over until his forehead rested on his knees, palms flat on the floor, curled so that he took up as little space as possible while giving Dean full access to the smooth expanse of his back. There were a few oddly-shaped scars, but they looked old, and otherwise Sam’s skin was tanned and flawless and the bunching and stretching of his muscles really were things of beauty. Jane was seriously reconsidering her preference in subs – it might be nice to have a bath slave built like this.

“So you had four built up from before we got here and two at the door…let’s just round it out to eight. Count them out for me, Sam.” Dean paced a casual circle around Sam as she spoke, smacking the crop into the palm of her left hand loud enough to be heard. Jane could appreciate the ominous combination of the _clop, clop_ of thick-heeled boots, the _swish_ of the crop through the air and the _smack_ as it hit flesh. Apparently Sam appreciated it too – Jane watched his muscles jump as he tensed. Dean stopped pacing, inhaled deeply, and swung the crop, _hard._

The sound as the crop collided with Sam’s back was much meatier than the palm-swatting of just a few seconds ago. Sam twitched violently, but did not break his position and did not cry out. He took a deep breath and counted, “One, sir.”

The next seven strikes were no gentler, creating a latticework of angry red welts across Sam’s back. He counted each through clenched teeth, but he didn’t wriggle or squirm, or even whimper, which was more than Jane could really expect of anyone. Those lashes had to have hurt like hell. After the eighth stripe, Dean allowed Sam a few moments to catch his – ragged – breath.

“Put on your shirt and get up,” Dean instructed sharply. Sam did as he was told, flinching ever so slightly when the fabric of his shirt rubbed against his abused back. When he stood, his eyes were fever-bright and there was a fine tremor in his hands. Jane recognized that look. She’d be willing to bet a healthy sum that when Dean and Sam were at home, punishments like that were usually followed by a much more pleasant activity. Jane smiled.

“Remarkable. Thank you for that.” Jane managed to tear her eyes away from Sam and looked back at Dean. “I assume that you’re in town on special business, since I haven’t seen you before, and Amanda wouldn’t have sent you specifically to me unless you need information that I am in a unique position to provide. I can see that the two of you have other…matters to attend to, so let’s make this quick. Are you looking for information on the coven in general, or a specific witch?”

Dean was caught off-guard for a moment by the rapid subject change, but recovered quickly enough. She asked the questions she came to ask, and Jane gave her the answers and then some. When Dean had everything she needed, she thanked Jane for her assistance. She didn’t make the usual noises about coming back, but Jane didn’t expect them. Dean and Sam were definitely lifestylers, and the club scene probably just wasn’t their thing. Jane appreciated their willingness to approach her on her own turf, though, and she expressed as much to Dean. Thanking Dean again for a marvelous show, Jane smiled as they left the club – Sam trailing a step behind Dean, breath catching occasionally when his shirt pulled across his back as he wove through the crowd.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall when they got home. Jane smiled, taking the glass of wine offered by her most recent sissy-maid, and returned her attention to the remaining customers in the club.


End file.
